


Someone Will Call You

by Justphoenix



Category: The Great Believers (novel)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Homophobia, Hospitals, chosen family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 07:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21050321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justphoenix/pseuds/Justphoenix
Summary: Leon Tishman has largely ignored the fact his son Yale was gay. When Yale is hospitalized with complications from AIDS, he is forced to face facts about himself, his son, and their relationship.





	Someone Will Call You

1991

The traffic ahead of Leon Tishman slowed as he approached the Skyway toll plaza. There were so many cars in front of him, and he wasn't used to so much traffic. Where did everyone need to go on a Saturday afternoon?

He hadn't been in Chicago in years. The last time was in 1982 for a client meeting. Even driving in on a weekday, the traffic hadn't seemed as bad as it was now. He'd stayed for three days, but he hadn't visited Yale then. He hadn't even told Yale he was in town. In all the years his son had lived in Chicago, just a five hour drive away, not once had Leon visited him.

He could have, of course. Met Yale for dinner, walked around downtown, maybe visited a tourist trap or two. But if Yale had invited him back to the apartment he shared with his British friend (Leon couldn't bring himself to use the word _boyfriend_), he didn't know how he'd get out of it. What happened to the friend anyway? One day Yale had called to say he was staying at someone else’s place, and never mentioned him again.

The traffic crawled to a standstill. Leon took a moment to glance at the passenger seat, where he'd kept the atlas and directions to Illinois Masonic Hospital written in careful, neat handwriting. At the top was written Room 3740. Yale's room number.

He thought back to the call he’d received the day before. It was late morning, and he’d been following up with some clients who had filed extensions on their returns, letting his coffee grow cold as he thumbed through the files. He’d suspected nothing out of the ordinary when the phone rang.

"Mr. Tishman?" An unfamiliar woman's voice. She sounded wary.

"Yes?"

"I'm calling about Yale. He's in the hospital. He's very sick."

His stomach dropped. He'd known this day was coming, had since Yale first told him, but the call and time around it took on an air of unreality, as if in a dream. "Are you his nurse?" he asked.

"No, it's Fiona. I'm his friend. It's really bad this time." 

Yale had never mentioned her before.

Leon listened in stunned silence, as she explained he had a lung infection called aspergillosis, and then rattled off a bunch of information about medications and cell counts that might as well have been in Greek for all he understood.

"His nurse said he's really out of it. Could barely stay awake. Can you come and see him? I'm not sure..." her voice broke. "He should have someone with him. I'm in Madison now, but I'm going to skip my afternoon classes and head down there as soon as I can."

The only thing he'd been able to get out was, "Yes, I'll come. Tomorrow."

He could have left that day. He probably should have. But then how would he explain his to his boss, or his co-workers? In his 35 years with the firm, he’d never left early once. They didn't even know what Yale was, let alone that he was sick. It was just as well. He'd go home, look for a nice hotel to book and neatly pack his clothes in his suitcase.

Aspergillosis. The name sounded like a disease for a fish.

As his ‘79 Buick Skylark rolled towards the toll booth, he counted out quarters, one by one, stored in a 35 mm film canister in the console ashtray. He shivered as a gust of wind hit him as he rolled down the window. Despite being nearly May, the temperature was barely above freezing.

His stomach lurched as the Chicago skyline came into view.

He’d last seen Yale over two years ago, when he’d come up for Uncle Bill's 80th birthday. The family had thrown a huge party. At the time, he'd scanned Yale for signs of illness, as if he'd bear some sort of mark. Physically, he looked the same, but he seemed weary, wrung out. The only other thing he had said about the matter, in hushed tones, was to refrain from telling the rest of the family. Leon had been all too happy to comply. Yale had been in the hospital with pneumonia a couple times since, but Leon had always found out about it later, during their monthly call. Yale had simply said it was bound to happen, and he’d gotten better.  
As he drove up the Dan Ryan expressway, he wondered if something he'd done had made Yale this way. If he hadn’t been, after all, he wouldn’t have gotten this disease, would he? Some guys at work said it was because the father was absent or ineffective. Leon actually wondered if the opposite was true. What if he'd tried harder to remarry after Yale’s mother left? Not that there were many eligible candidates. The Jewish population of Midlands was small, and the subset of single, age appropriate women willing to marry a divorced father would have been miniscule. Sure, his sister Deborah had helped out with Yale when he was young, but then her husband got a job with Ford and they'd moved to Detroit. That left Leon to do all the cooking and cleaning. Seeing his dad doing housekeeping-had that confused him somehow? He didn't understand it, any of it. He'd heard about what men like that did, prowling around in parks and bus stations. Acts he shuddered to even think about.

Leon prided himself on building a safe, secure life for himself and his son. A modest, but well-kept home. Food on the table. Vacations to Mackinac Island. Providing for him. Protecting him. Sometimes that meant keeping the menorah out of the window, so they’d be like other families on their block.

That might have been the hardest thing about being a father. At some point, you had to stop protecting them.  
\--

Illinois Masonic Hospital was a hulking brown structure wedged within a neighborhood of small apartment buildings and bungalows. The El train rattled past as Leon locked the car doors.

Slow steps, willing himself to move through the garage and the lobby.

He had no idea what to say. Leon had always been a man of few words, which had to be drawn out of him like spun sugar. He imagined himself saying he was sorry, sorry they hadn't been closer over the years. Sorry he had this awful disease. They would have a touching moment like one of the made for TV movies he dozed off to on Sunday nights.

They’d never shared that much, even when Yale was younger. He was a quiet child, content to entertain himself in his room, enjoying comic books and model airplanes. Their conversations mostly focused around TV and chores and baseball. At the time, he’d been relieved Yale had never come to him with questions about girls, not realizing the implications. When he learned about Yale’s lifestyle, at nineteen, their conversations shriveled up to almost nothing. College breaks at home were increasingly awkward. When Yale announced he’d gotten an apartment in Ann Arbor for the summer after junior year, a palpable, silent pressure disappeared from the house.

When the elevator doors opened on Unit 371, he was immediately assaulted by loud rock music playing in the lounge. The air smelled of antiseptic and sickly sweet. A rack on the wall held pamphlets for confidential testing and condom use, showing two young, muscular men on the cover. He averted his eyes. Was this whole unit for...men like Yale?

He entered 3740 intending to give a warm greeting, and stopped, stunned.

The man sitting in the bed, propped up by pillows...was that Yale? Small to begin with, he'd lost at least fifty pounds. His arms were like sticks, and his cheeks were sunken. 

He had a tube up his nose, and another coming out of his hand. He looked so, so pale.

"Hi Dad." His voice was weak.

"Hi." Leon felt unsure of what to do. He wished he'd brought something, flowers or a card. Wasn't that customary when you visited a loved one in the hospital? 

Sitting at his bedside was a woman dark brown permed hair, and wore a pink blouse with brown slacks that were in bad need of pressing. She got up and approached Leon, extending her hand. 

"Hi, I'm Cecily. Yale and I worked together at Northwestern."

“Hi. I’m Yale’s father.” On closer inspection, she looked to be in her late forties. She looked as if she'd been stretched taut.

She added in a low voice. "He's doing much better today, actually. Awake. Had breakfast. Breathing easier. He’ll probably have to be here a couple weeks, but they might send him home sooner if he gets approved for a home IV infusion.” 

“That’s good.” Leon let out a small sigh of relief. He approached the bed, unsure of where to stand, but settling on the foot of the bed. "Hey, Yale." he said. "Been keeping up with the Cubs? Maddux is looking good."

"So far." Yale's voice was monotone. "Let's hope my roommate doesn't blast Wheel of Fortune during the game." With an IV-taped hand, he gestured to the blue curtain dividing the room.

"Oh, you have a roommate. You know your grandpa, he hated his roommate in the home." He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. It was probably a terrible thing to say.

"It's good, actually." Yale replied. "Means I'm not dying yet. Won't get a private room ‘til I'm circling the drain."

Leon's eyebrows raised with shock at his son's flippancy.

When neither man didn’t say anything further, Cecily spoke. "Yale and I were just talking about the gallery. Attendance is double what it was last year! We just opened a new collection that wouldn't have been possible without him." She gave Yale a smile of genuine affection. Turing back to Leon, she asked, "Are you interested in art too, Mr. Tishman?"

Leon shook his head. He was strictly a numbers man.

“Art is for faggots, right Dad?” said Yale.

Leon didn’t reply, but his ears burned. He’d rarely used that word, and certainly never in front of Yale. Before he could think of a reply, a petite blonde woman pushed the door further open with her elbow. Her arms were full with a paper bag and soft drink cans.

"Hey Feef." Yale’s eyes brightened. "My dad made it."

She stared at Leon from the doorway, not moving, regarding him with suspicion. She wore a grey and red sweatshirt and jeans. She’d sounded young, but her eyes and expression looked much older. Leon felt as if he were being thoroughly inspected, examined for the tiniest fault.

"Hello," her voice was much colder than it had been on the phone.

“Hello, Fiona. Thanks for, um, taking care of him.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Without taking her eyes off Leon, she asked Yale. "Do you want us to leave?"

"Nah, you can stay, it's fine." he tried to sound casual, but his eyes were pleading. "Anything good in the cafeteria?"

“Not really. Jeez, Yale, can’t you find an AIDS ward near a four-star restaurant?” Her shoulders relaxed and her mouth turned up in a slight grin. 

"Sorry.” He shrugged. “Next time I get admitted, I'll do it on a Thursday. That's when they bring in food from Ann Sathers."

“I brought you a brownie. The last one they had." She opened the wrapper and set it on the bedside table, placing a napkin next to it, as if it were a dining room setting.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’re going to get out of here and get a proper meal later, right? You shouldn’t stay here all night.”

“Why not?” Fiona took out a tuna sandwich and a Yoplait container for herself, and placed them on the table next to his brownie. “I have the vending machines in addition to this fabulous feast, and I brought my homework for when you nap.” She indicated the backpack next to his IV pole.

“Don’t worry,” Cecily told him. “I’ll make her eat something tonight, before I clean up your apartment. “

“Yeah, sorry I left it in such a mess. I was super busy trying to breathe.” Yale examined the yogurt. “Is that low-fat, Feef? You don’t need that. You’re what, a hundred pounds soaking wet?”

Cecily gave her a salacious grin. “She does if she’s letting her professor see her naked.” 

“_Former_ professor. “ Fiona said. The three of them laughed. Fiona raised an eyebrow at Leon, daring him to comment on her supposed impropriety. He held her gaze, but added nothing. He wondered again: was this his son? During his rare visits home, he was pleasant but quiet, lurking in the background, almost wanting to disappear. Leon was proud of him in a way; he wasn’t one of those limp-wristed flamboyant types. The only sign of the man sitting here was the rare times when Yale lashed out verbally at his father, daring him to name what he was. Leon never rose to the bait.

Yale ate the brownie with slow, shaky bites. The women chatted with him about the nurses, other patients, mutual friends. People he didn’t know, names he’d never heard. Leon shifted his weight and put his hands in his pockets, fiddling with his car keys. It was almost as if they’d forgotten he was there. He tried to think of something to say, but he’d mostly nodded and added a few brief statements. The three of them were a closed circle, a conversation as impenetrable to him as Fort Knox. Leon knew he wouldn’t be able to break in. He’d wait until Fiona and Cecily left. Then he and Yale could have a proper visit. 

He didn’t get the chance. Shortly after finishing the brownie, Yale’s eyes went wide and he covered his mouth, waving his hand frantically towards the emesis basin. Fiona grabbed it just in time for him to vomit. 

“Shit.” He hung his head. 

“Any more?” Fiona held the basin before him. The scent of vomit hit Leon’s nostrils, making his stomach turn.

“Maybe. Give me a minute,”he groaned. “Goddamnit, I just got through a stomach bug.” He clutched his abdomen, chest heaving. 

Fiona hit the call button. “Doesn’t mean it’s another one. This might be a side effect of the amphoterrible. It made Nico throw up constantly.”

Leon remained frozen to the spot where he was standing, unsure of how to help Yale or whether he’d even want help from him. Noticing his paralysis, Cecily asked him, 

“Can you get a washcloth from the bathroom?”

“Sure,” He was grateful to be useful, for his presence to have an impact. When he returned with the washcloth, Cecily snatched it from his hands, and placed it on Yale’s forehead, where a sheen of sweat had formed. He thrust his hands back in his pockets, unable to move as he watched his son take gasping breaths, getting sicker before his eyes.

The nurse came in and was immediately at the bedside. “Yale, stomach bothering you?”

He nodded, then vomited again, this time getting brown globs on his gown.

“I’m going to page the on-call doctor to get you some Zofran. But first, let’s get you cleaned up.” With quick, efficient movements, she sat him up without getting vomit on her scrubs or tangling any of the tubes. She looked up at the visitors. “Can you step outside for a moment, please?” Her tone was pleasant, but authoritative.

Outside, Cecily and Fiona spoke in hushed tones. Leon didn’t catch what they were saying. All of the noise around him, even from the loud stereo next door, felt muted. His head buzzed, chest tightened, and he felt like it was hard to breathe. He closed his eyes, and he saw Yale, breath coming in gasps.

He had to get out of there.

As he walked briskly to the elevators, he passed another patient bent over a walker, no more than thirty but shuffling like an old man, his sallow face full of despair. Just like Yale’s. A whole ward of Yales, and they were all going to die. 

His mind flashed to photos from the camps, in the newspapers and shown at temple. Frightened, emaciated, and exhausted.

At the elevator, he pushed the button rapid times in succession.

“Mr. Tishman, are you leaving?” Cecily was standing behind him. Inwardly, he cursed. He thought he’d slipped away without the women noticing.

“I-I thought I”d come back later.” His voice sounded wrong to him, far away, almost alien. His heart pounded in his chest. He turned around, expecting her to be angry or disgusted at his pathetic attempt at being a parent. Instead, her eyes were soft, and her brow was furrowed in concern.

“Look, about Fiona,” she paused, squinting in thought. “It’s not about you. Her brother had it too, and she still blames her parents for what happened to him. Barely speaks to them. They threw him out when he was fifteen. But at least you weren’t like that, were you?” she gave a small smile.

“No, never.” He’d heard about other people punishing their kids for being that way. That wasn’t what it meant to be a father to him.

Behind him, he heard the elevator ding and the doors slide open. “Gotta go. Bye.” he mumbled.

He felt like the elevator walls were closing in on him, and he closed his eyes, wishing it would get to the first floor already. It had been so easy all these years to avoid. But reality of Yale, his life, his orientation, his illness-was hitting him all at once, overwhelming him. The carefully constructed evasion, omission, and denial had come undone, Yale’s disease a single thread unraveling a sweater. 

He didn’t even button his coat as he dashed through the lobby.

Only standing in the cold air in front of the hospital’s glass doors, surrounded by darkening sky, was Leon able to breathe again. 

\--  
The next morning, the sun was shining and the chill had lessened. Leon felt a twinge of panic as he approached the hospital entrance again.  
He had not come back the previous night, telling himself he needed more time to regain his composure. He’d gone to a diner but hadn’t felt like eating much. In his hotel room, he’d flipped through the channels aimlessly, not seeing anything catch his eye, before deciding to go to bed. He stared up at the ceiling for hours, willing himself to sleep. 

Yale was asleep when he arrived. No other visitors were there, to Leon’s relief. He hadn’t been sure what to expect after yesterday’s vomiting episode, but he seemed to have more color in his cheeks. He looked almost peaceful. Leon sat in a chair next to the bed and set down his coffee. He read the Chicago Tribune he’d bought in the hotel lobby as Yale slept.

When was the last time he’d done something like this, watching over his son? It must have been when Yale was six and had the measles. Leon had mostly puttered around the house then, bringing him orange juice and Children’s Tylenol when he needed it. 

Of course, that had been very different. Back then, Yale was going to live. 

He was perusing the Travel section when he heard a cough, and Yale’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Hi Yale,” He said.

Yale blinked in confusion. “Hi, Dad.” His voice was still heavy with sleep. “What time is it?”

Leon looked at his watch. “About ten. How are you feeling?”

“A little better, I guess.” He slowly sat up. “No nausea.”

Leon looked down at his shoes, studying the worn but polished black leather. “I see you convinced Fiona to leave.”

Yale gave a weak smile. “She’s meeting some friends of ours for breakfast. They’ll come after that. Probably another hour or so.” His breathing seemed less labored than the day before, his voice stronger. 

“Good, good.” Leon nodded. An awkward silence hung between them, the only sound the squeak of shoes from the hallway. Yale looked over at him, waiting for him to say something, anything. Leon searched for the right words to say. The plastic orange chair he was sitting in was starting to hurt his back. He finally settled on, “I’m sorry. About yesterday.”

“It’s okay,” Yale said. “I know you’re not good at this stuff. Any of it.” 

“Yeah.” Leon frowned. “Is there anything you need?”

“No. Actually, Dad, you don’t have to stay.”

That hadn’t been the answer Leon had expected. “What?”

Yale looked into the distance. After a moment, he spoke, “There’s a pair of shoes in the closet over there. I wore them when I came in. They belonged to my friend Nico. Fiona’s brother.”

“Cecily told me about him,” Leon interrupted, and Yale gave him a stern frown, silencing him.

“His parents swooped in at the last minute. Put him in a different hospital where they had no idea what to do with him. A bunch of us raided his apartment during the funeral. That’s how I got his shoes. They wouldn’t let his lover be there, let alone his friends.” Leon cringed at the word _lover_, but Yale continued, unfazed. “It was awful. They denied everything he was. And that’s not going to happen to me.” 

“I’d never do that,” Leon protested.

“You won’t. Fiona has power of attorney.” Yale faced him now, eyes flickered with a mixture of anger and sadness. “I asked her to call you the other day because it seemed like what I was supposed to do, but…this…this isn’t what I need. I’m sorry. I can’t bullshit with you over the crossword. I can’t pretend to be someone else. I can’t comfort you when I’m the one dying.” 

Leon was shocked at his boldness. His only son, rejecting him outright? “But we’re family,” he said.

“Are we?” Yale asked. 

Leon could only stare at him. His role as a father was a passive presence, a tenuous intrusion tolerated by a sense of obligation. He’d known it, viscerally, all these years. Perhaps the best way to be a father to Yale now was to respect him, was to honor his wishes.

It was a ridiculous question, but he needed to know. “How can you do this?”

Yale shrugged and looked around. “What do I have left to lose?” 

He had a point.

As Leon put on his heavy black overcoat, he looked back at his son one last time. Despite his frailty, he’d puffed out his chest. He had an air of determination and confidence, almost triumph. “What happens when you…” he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Someone will call you.” 

He nodded, and his feet carried him automatically to the elevator at the other end of the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements:
> 
> The Dorchester Writers Meetup, for reading and discussing the initial draft.
> 
> _Taking Turns: Stories From HIV/AIDS Care Unit 371_ by MK Czerwiec was a valuable source for additional details about the hospital unit.


End file.
